


Crush

by GoodJanet



Category: Actor RPF, Feud (TV 2017)
Genre: Crushes, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Flirting, Internal Conflict, Period Typical Attitudes, Possibly Unrequited Love, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-25 06:12:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10758363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodJanet/pseuds/GoodJanet
Summary: This fic is abandoned.Joan is interested, and Bette is oblivious (until she's not).





	1. Chapter 1

Bette doesn’t think anything of it at first.

A hand at her elbow, guiding her as they walked through the crowded studio lot.

An errant strand of hair tucked back into place in between takes.

A little assistance provided with a pesky zipper.

A suggestion about what she should do with her lashes.

All of it, Bette writes off as that just being Joan Crawford’s way. It seemed like the sort of things she would do. Joan liked to pick and poke and prod into business that wasn’t her own. She liked to control everything around her, so why not try to control her costar too?

She brings it up to Victor once at a party, and he laughs.

“And just what is so funny? That woman is driving me mad!”

Victor composes himself enough to say, “It’s because she likes you, dear.”

Bette lights a cigarette.

“That’s a load of crap, and you know it. She doesn’t like me; she likes control. Well, I’m here to tell her that if I didn’t let four husbands control me, I’m certainly not going to let her.”

“Bette, you’re misunderstanding. I think she’s _interested_ in you,” he says pointedly.

Bette blinks.

“Oh.”

She reaches for her glass and mulls the thought over. She sits back in her seat, looking skeptical.

“Do you really think that, or are you just pulling my leg?”

Victor drums his fingers on the sides of his glass.

“It certainly seems that way to me…and probably to everyone on-set who’s reading between the lines.”

Bette taps ash into the waiting tray.

“Hmmm. What’s she going to do next? Yank my pigtails?”

Victor laughs.

“I get the feeling that you’d let her and like it.”

Bette cocks her head to the side, contemplating the idea. She lets smoke trail out of her mouth in a steady stream towards the ceiling before smiling.

“Maybe I would.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Honestly, Bette, you’d look so much more becoming in that dress if only you’d—”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Lucille, would you stop pulling at my dress already! Didn’t your mother ever teach you to behave?”

Joan looks affronted.

“I was merely trying to help. Your bow is lopsided. Just think how that would look in the paper. I was trying to save you some embarrassment.”

Bette lights a cigarette.

“Next time, just tell me, and I’ll do it myself. I’m a big girl you know.”

“If that’s what you want,” Joan says.

Bette watches her reach into her purse and pull out her own pack of cigarettes. She holds it between her teeth and reaches back into her bag for a sleek silver lighter. It snaps to life between her fingers, and the glow catches on her clear nail polish. Bette catches herself wondering what else her hands can do when Joan catches her staring.

“What is it?” Joan asks.

Bette blinks.

“What?”

“You were staring at me. Is something wrong? Something on my face?”

Before Bette can answer, she’s diving back into her purse for her compact mirror. Bette watches her scan each inch of her face with a careful eye, turning the mirror this way and that.

“It’s nothing,” Bette says, grabbing Joan’s wrist and pulling the hand holding the mirror down. “You look fine. I was just lost in thought.”

Joan frowns.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Positive.”

Joan looks down, and Bette realizes she’s still holding Joan’s wrist. She lets go immediately, as though burned.

“I—”  
“It’s fine, Bette. I trust you. Shall we be moving along now?”

She snaps her mirror closed and deposits it back into her bag.

“Yes, of course. The photographers are still waiting for us, aren’t they?”

Joan smiles. 

“We’d better go and give them what they want.”

Joan opens the door that leads out of the make-up room at the venue, leaving Bette alone. Bette takes a deep breath, checks herself over in the floor length mirror one last time, and huffs a laugh.

Joan was absolutely right.

She straightens her crooked bow and follows the sound of popping bulbs.


	3. Chapter 3

The fourth time Bob coughs like his lungs are trying to escape his chest, Bette tells Bob that enough is enough.

“What use are you if you get us all sick? Warner can barely afford to let you be sick, let alone the two of us,” Bette says.

“Remind me which one of us is the director here?” Bob rasps.

Joan gets up from her wheelchair.

“Bob, you’re being ridiculous. You should go home, put a plaster on your chest, and we can pick up from here tomorrow.”

Bob takes in the scene of the two powerhouses before him: Bette, hands balled into fists on her hips. Joan, with her arms folded. They aren’t very tall women, but they have a presence that can’t be denied. Especially when they’re showing a rare united front. And especially with them both staring at him with eyes that hypnotized millions. They don’t budge.

“Alright,” he says, throwing up his hands. He coughs again. “Alright. But tomorrow is going to be long to make up for this, and I don’t want to hear any griping from either of you.”

For all that they are different, they both smile subtly at their victory.

“You won’t hear a word from me,” Bette says.

“Nor me either,” Joan says.

It looks as though Bob is going to say something else—or perhaps attempt to threaten them—but he gives up. Later, he’ll blame his capitulation on his inability to breathe properly, even though that was nothing more than a lie he could tell himself to help him sleep.

Bob walks off the set, and everyone starts closing things down for the day. Bette walks over to her set chair to grab her pack of smokes; Joan follows.

“Well,” Joan says, “now that we’ve got the whole day free, would you care to join me for lunch?”

Bette tilts her head and smoke gently billows out of her mouth.

“What’s your angle?”

Joan laughs, but not unkindly.

“There isn’t any angle. I just thought you might be hungry. I always skip breakfast the day of a shoot.”

Bette nods. Lots of stars did that. Some even skipped lunch and dinner as well. Bette was never the type.

“Neat trick. You must be famished.”

“I am,” Joan says rather candidly. Bette is almost taken aback by her honesty. “There’s a nice place not too far from here. Come on. I can drive us.”

Just the two of them. Alone in Joan’s car. Alone at a restaurant. Would Joan pick out a table for them, to keep them out in the open where anyone could see her and ask for an autograph? Or would she pick a booth? A booth would certainly be more intimate.

Bette shakes her head and stamps out her cigarette before starting another. She was letting her conversation with Victor get the better of her again. 

“Okay, Lucille. Lead the way.”

Joan smiles at her warmly, and Bette wonders why her stomach suddenly swooped twelve stories.

_Must be hungrier than I thought…_


	4. Chapter 4

They get a booth.

And Bette reminds herself that that doesn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. There isn’t a studio in existence that wouldn’t give them the boot if they even _suspected_ there was any sort of unsavory behavior happening between two of their stars.

Bette packs a cigarette against the laminated hardwood table as Joan carefully removes her mink coat. The dark material was the same color as Joan’s hair, and Bette wonders how often she has to dye it. It always felt to Bette that just as soon as she had been to the beauty parlor, she’d look in the mirror and see new silver strands in her reflection.

The silence between them is beginning to feel awkward.

“This is a nice place,” Bette says. She lights her cigarette. “Do you come here often?”

_What kind of question was that? Jesus._

Joan smiles and hands Bette a menu before opening her own.

“I do. Their seafood is divine. Are you a seafood person?”

“I won’t say no to a nice lobster. What are you getting?”

“I think…,” she says, looking over the list of dishes, “The shrimp salad.”

A waiter comes up as soon as Joan closes her menu.

“Miss Crawford, so lovely to have you and Miss Davis here this afternoon. Shall we start off with cocktails? A martini perhaps?” the waiter asks.

“A martini sounds marvelous. Make it dirty,” Bette says.

“And for you, Miss Crawford?”

“I’ll take the same.”

“Coming up right away. And for your meals?”

“Two shrimp salads. House dressing on the side,” Bette answers.

Their waiter rapidly writes it down on a pad of paper, bows, and rushes off to the kitchen.

“No lobster?” Joan asks.

“What can I say?” Bette says with a shrug. She lights a fresh cigarette. “I decided to go off-script today.”


	5. Chapter 5

It’s been a hell of a day, and Bette wants to drink. She pulls out a bottle of scotch and grabs the hotel phone and rings up Victor’s room.

“Hello?” he says.

“I’ve got booze,” she says.

His laugh sounds tinny coming through the phone, but it makes her smile nonetheless.

“I’ll be right down. Should I call the others?”

Bette thinks about it.

“No. I want to talk to you about something. Privately.”

“Oh? Well give me a minute, and then you won’t have to drink alone.”

Bette hangs up the receiver and pours two drinks into glasses of ice. Victor was on his way, so this didn’t _technically_ count as drinking alone, she reasons.

She opens the door on his second knock.

“Anxious about something, are we?”

“Just get in out of the hall.” 

She hands him a glass and lopes back to her seat. He sits down across from her.

“Well, what’s on your mind?”

Bette gives him a look.

“Who else?”

“And what has the wicked witch done to you this time?” he asks.

Bette takes a drink.

“Nothing! That’s just it! She’s done nothing.”

“Then shouldn’t you be happy? I don’t see why this requires a late night depression spiral.”

“That’s the problem. I should be happy for this truce we seem to have stumbled into, and I’m not.”

Victor leans forward in his chair, as though to ensure the walls weren’t listening in on them.

“Is this about her little crush on you? Bette, I was merely teasing you. I only meant you two were acting like you wanted each other’s attention. And that, you certainly have.”

“But what if she does, Victor?”

“It only means what you want it to mean, darling.”

Bette finishes off her and drink and pours herself another. She lights a cigarette while she’s at it.

“How did you know, Victor, that you were—”

“That I was gay? Forever. I knew quite early on actually.”

Bette doesn’t say anything for a while. She just drinks and smokes, and Victor lets her, bless him. He’s the only person in the whole world who she can talk to about this.

Bette laughs.

“What’s so funny?” Victor asks.

But he’s smiling too because Bette’s laugh is infectious, and he’s just relieved that the look of worry has left her face.

“Maybe I should’ve thought about love more critically. You know, Crawford and I have eight failed marriages between us?”

Victor can’t help a laugh. Bette knows it’s not really funny, but somehow it is. All the men that had come into their lives had left, and there they were, just the two of them left standing with nothing but their awards and wrinkles to show for it.

“Obviously having a man in your life isn’t working out,” Victor says.

“So what? I should change sides?”

Victor shrugs.

“I’m merely here to be a sounding board for my friend.”

Bette raises her half-finished glass.

“To lost loves,” she says.

“To found friends,” he says.

Their glasses clink, and Bette doesn’t feel so alone.


	6. Chapter 6

Bette doesn’t know how to handle someone crying. Hell, she’s not even very good at handling her own tears. But when she finds Joan crying on their abandoned set long after everyone else has gone home, she feels compelled to check on her.

“What got you down?” Bette asks.

Bette reaches her hand out and gently pats Joan’s shoulder, unsure if the gesture would be welcomed or not. Joan looks up and carefully dabs her lacy white handkerchief over her face. And Jesus, she even looked pretty when she cried. It was as though her tears were magnifying her already expressive brown eyes.

“Nothing,” Joan says, desperately trying to compose herself. “It’s nothing. Just some bad news, that’s all.”

“Is this about your brother?” Bette asks. “Bob told me. I hope it’s alright that I know.”

Joan shakes her head.

“Oh yes, my brother. That’s it. It’s been a very difficult time for me.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Lucille. It’s very hard to lose a family member.”

Joan sniffs and reaches towards her coat pocket, but stops short. Her eyes dart back to Bette’s.

“I’m not going to judge you for wanting a drink. You have enough in there for me?”

Joan pulls out her flask.

“There should be enough,” Joan says.

Bette fetches some tiny paper cups from the make-up caddy and brings them back to where Joan was sitting in her set chair. Bette pulls her chair over and hands Joan the cups. Joan fills them up in equal measure. They sip in silence that is broken only by Joan’s occasional sniff until finally Joan’s flask is empty, and there’s nothing else to distract them.

“So you know why I’m here,” Joan says. “But may I ask why you are?”

Bette crumples her cup in her fist.

“I left a pair of heels behind. I was going to wear them tonight. I was planning on going dancing.”

Joan smiles. Bette thinks she looks rather pretty, illuminated by the set’s ghost light.

“I think I was born dancing,” Joan says. “It’s been too long.”

“No one knows how to dance anymore,” Bette says. She reaches into her purse for her cigarettes and her lighter. “They just sort of gyrate against each other and call it dancing.”

“You’ve got that right.”

They lapse into silence again when Bette speaks up.

“You should come with me. It’s not that late. You can show everyone a thing or two about real dancing. It might just take your mind off things too.”

“That wouldn’t be a bother to you?”

Bette smiles.

“You, a bother?” she jokes. “Come on. Let’s see what you can do, baby.”

Joan hops up off her chair.

“Then let’s go.”


	7. Chapter 7

Bette is glad she had decided to ask Joan to go dancing with her. She didn’t think Joan would go for it, and when she hopped out of her chair, Bette half expected the rest of her night was going to be ruined with exchanged barbs, but it was _fun_.

Like her, Joan liked to smoke and dance and drink, and it was so goddamn refreshing to have another broad around who could keep up with her. Joan even finds two young men—probably gay, Bette guesses—who wanted to dance with their idols. And hell, why not? This was a night for saying yes, so why not?

She feels as though she were still spinning, though she was now standing still. The icy drinks had made everything seem so vibrant! She blinks until things slow down a little. Enough for her to say:

“I’ll be right back. I need to freshen up.”

“I’ll go with you. It’s rather hot out here,” Joan says.

“Watch our coats, boys,” Bette says over her shoulder.

They eagerly nod, and the women walk off. It’s amazing how quiet the ladies’ room is compared to the dance floor. Bette’s ears ring. Bette runs the sink and cups cool water over her face while Joan carefully pats the sweat from her brow.

“Sometimes I forget I’m not thirty anymore,” Bette says. “What a work out.”

“Don’t remind me,” Joan says. “But aren’t those young men charming?”

Joan untucks her purse from under her arm and pulls out her lipstick to retouch.

“Damn. I left my purse at the table. Let me use yours.”

Bette holds her hand out. Joan frowns.

“I don’t like to share my products. It’s unhygienic.”

Bette sighs deeply.

“Mine’s worn off. I’ll frighten those boys away if I go out there like this.”

“Bette, I don’t—”

“Lucille, we were having such a lovely time, and now you’re going to ruin it over—”

Bette’s eyes widen as Joan grabs her face between her hands and presses their lips firmly together. Bette lets out a small sound of surprise, but she’s too surprised to do anything other than submit. She didn’t realize her eyes had closed until she opens them when Joan pulls away.

“There,” Joan says. “Now you have some color.”

Bette is stunned when Joan smirks at her as she walks out, leaving her alone in the women’s room. Bette glances up at her reflection. She touches her lips with her fingertips.

_It’s such a lovely color too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for this chapter came from this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c1ONh88Q590


End file.
